The Soloist
by blackviolins
Summary: Kurt Hummel is a journalist for the New York Times, with his dreams of becoming a musician for the New York Philharmonic crushed and left in Ohio. But what happens when he meets a stranger that helps him find a lost dream?
1. Could Do Worse

**Author's Note: Hello again. First and foremost, I would like to apologize to those of you who have been reading 'Somewhere' and 'Responsibility' as I have not yet updated them. I'm sorry! It's just that I'm stuck and every time I try to write a new chapter for those two fics, I end up writing a new story. I just have so many ideas and this one just needed to be written. I even have a playlist for it!**

**Second, this fic is based _a little_ on the movie (and the book) _The Soloist_. If you haven't seen it yet, you should. You really should. I recommend it. However, you need not watch the movie or read the book in order to understand this fic. I was just clearing up the fact that half of the idea for this isn't mine. **

**Lastly, I hope you enjoy this story! :) Reviews are always encouraged! :D**

* * *

><p>Life in New York used to be just a dream of mine. You know, a far-fetched fantasy that I thought would never happen. Until one fateful day, a rich man gave me a check for $100,000 when I saved his life during a car crash, thus allowing me to go to New York, buy my own grand apartment, and start a business that made me a hundred thousand dollars. That's where it all began.<p>

Nah, I'm just kidding.

I'm a journalist. I work for the New York Times. It's not _that_ bad. There are a lot of really cool people that I work with. Plus, journalism is something that I've always wanted to do. I've always written stuff like stories, poems... stuff like that. It's my first dream.

Okay, I'm not being completely honest.

Before I wanted to become a journalist, it has been my life-long dream to become a musician. I play different kinds of instruments: the piano, violin, cello, drums, guitar, flute, harmonica, trumpet, saxophone, and the lyre. But my first love was the piano. Since I was very young, I wanted to become part of the New York Philharmonic. I practiced everyday for hours, hoping that one day, I'll be as good as them. Each year, I look forward to graduating and leaving Lima, Ohio so I could go to New York and fulfill that dream.

When I was a senior in high school, our teachers asked us what we wanted to be after graduating college. I told them I wanted to become a musician. Apparently, that option is unavailable for me to take because musicians don't make a lot of money and I won't be able to provide for myself. Or my family, if I'm ever planning on having one (but I don't think that's really part of my to-do list). And that's not all— they said that I had slim chances of being a musician in New York, especially since I come from Lima. At first, I wanted to stuff cotton in their mouths, but then I realized that they were right. I asked them what job I could have, and they told me that I should be a journalist, since I've won several awards on writing. It didn't seem like a bad idea, so I went for it.

After graduating college, I immediately got a plane ticket to New York (with consent from my father, that is) and worked as a busboy for a restaurant in Manhattan. I only did it so I could pay for my rent. Coming from a small town, I really didn't have much experience with big-city things.

Luckily, I managed to adjust quickly to the New York lifestyle. A few months after I moved here, I made enough money to pay for my rent _and_ I landed an interview for the New York Times. I showed them some of my work in my blog (don't ask why I keep a blog. I have opinions, goddamnit). Things were going well. I got the job as one of the columnists for the 'Opinion Pages', as I applied for. And everything else was pretty much set in stone for me.

Anyway, about a month after I got into the New York Times, I knew I needed more money to pay the rent since I'm not really getting much from being a columnist because I'm still a newbie. Also, I quit my busboy job. It wasn't really working out for me. Not that I was fired or anything. Okay, maybe I was. Point is, I knew I needed a roommate.

I put up flyers everywhere, advertising the apartment. The place was great, by the way. It had two bedrooms and I had no idea what the heck I was going to do with that spare one It was big enough for two people to live in. I _needed_ a roommate.

I asked Finn, my brother, if he wanted to be my roommate. He's a technical sports director for the Giants. You know, the football team? Yeah. He's four years older than me, which means he graduated four years ahead of me which means he's been here in New York 4 years earlier than me. Anyway, I asked him if he was interested in sharing the rent with me and he said 'no' because he already likes the apartment he has. Plus, he and his girlfriend— now _fiancée_, Quinn are moving in together soon. And I don't think I can live with sleepless nights when they're doing the 'dance with no pants' next to my room. It's pretty disturbing, when you think about it.

So Finn was off my list.

I met this girl at the coffee shop. And we got married.

Kidding. Boy, am I on a roll.

But I _did_ meet a really nice girl at Starbucks and we chatted for a while. I found out that she was looking for an apartment to move to because apparently, her roommate _hated_ it when she does her singing practices in the apartment. Also, she's looking for an apartment in which the rent to share has a lower price than her current rent. She's a Broadway actress, a newbie. I am a fan of musicals myself and I was pretty impressed with her work. I talked to her for hours. Also, I offered her my apartment. She said she wasn't entirely sure if she can have a guy as a roommate. But I assured her that I'm not a predatory male. Well, I didn't look like one. She agreed and we immediately settled everything when we went to the apartment.

About 3 days after she moved in, we started going on… dates. And yeah, we made out and stuff. And… we did the deed a couple of times. Okay, judge me, but I only did it for experiment. I'm gay. But I just wanted to be sure. I mean, I could be bi for all I knew. But yeah, after dating for 3 months, I finally talked to her about this odd relationship that we had. Don't get me wrong, I like Rachel. I mean, I love her. And not in a romantic way. Like, in a best friend kind of way. But I was afraid that after lying to her and pretending to be something I'm not, she'd get mad at me and leave. But when I came out to her, she didn't get mad. She told me that the fact that we live together, dated, and slept with each other and also the fact that I'm gay, doesn't change anything in our friendship.

It didn't change anything.

And that's how Rachel Berry and I, Kurt Hummel, became best friends.

And now, here we are, 4 years later. Of course, as the years went by and the articles were written, my pay began to increase. I'm still waiting for the day they promote me. I so want to hear the name Chief Editor Hummel. It would mean a lot. It would be the only real achievement I would have in my entire life.

So, here's how the story goes.

* * *

><p>I woke up Monday morning, ready for another day of work. My alarm clock buzzed repeatedly; that annoying sound had always been something I <em>hated<em>. I pushed the 'off' button and rubbed my eyes as I sat up, looking at the curtains of my window. It was raining. Great. The first thing I wake up to in the morning. I groaned and got to my feet, slipping on my fuzzy man slippers, and made my bed. Afterwards, I headed to the kitchen/dining room and sat down at the table, yawning. Rachel was making pancakes. Rachel always cooks, and that's a privilege I _never _want to be taken away from me. See, Rachel and I split the chores. She cooks the food and cleans the house. I wash the dishes. Simple as that. Oh, and I also walk the dog. _Our_ dog, Toby. Although I don't really know if that counts as 'chores' because as far as I know, chores are something you don't want to do. And I really do want to walk Toby. I love dogs.

I was leaning my face against my hand with my elbow on the table and was almost falling asleep. Something startled me, and it was the sound of Rachel slamming the plate of pancakes in front of me. My eyes snapped open and I looked at her as she gave me a smirk and walked back to the kitchen counter. I grabbed the syrup and poured some on my pancakes. "You're a bitch, you know that?"

"Yes, sweetie. But I'm the best bitch ever, and I cook your food. Keep that in mind." She said as she sat down in front of me and ate her pancakes as she read the latest issue of _Ok! Magazine_.

As an attempt to get her back, I chewed on my pancakes and pretended to gag. "Yuck. These pancakes taste like cardboard."

_They taste like heaven_.

Rachel raised an eyebrow at me and continued to read and eat her food. I poured some of the orange juice that she made into my glass and drank some of it before pretending to choke. "Tastes like garbage!"

_They. Taste. Awesome. She always makes the perfect blend of juice._

With that last remark, Rachel stood up and grabbed my plate and glass. "Hey!" I said, watching her as she placed my plate on the counter. "If you hate it so much, then good luck and starve yourself to death." She said as she returned to her seat.

I need food.

I immediately put on my best puppy dog face at her.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Look at you like what?"

"That… that whole— puppy dog face."

I stared at her.

She stood up in annoyance and gave me back my pancakes and juice.

"You could've just gotten them yourself, you know."

"Yeah," I said, smiling to myself. "But I wanted you to get them for me."

I could sense Rachel rolling her eyes at me from behind her magazine.

This is how our normal day starts.

* * *

><p>After showering, I got dressed in my usual button-up shirt, vest, and tie underneath a blazer. But this time, I wore a coat, since it was raining. I grabbed my black messenger bag with my laptop inside and my other journalism equipment. Rachel didn't have any rehearsals today for the current musical she's in (she currently plays Maria in a production of <em>West Side Story<em>), and she told me that she's just gonna have some friends over. I kissed her goodbye on her cheek and headed off to work.

I always take the subway to work. Everyday. When I'm running late (which is almost always), I just buy a hotdog while waiting for the train and ask one of the janitors at work to buy coffee for me while I give them 5 bucks in return. It's a pretty sweet deal.

I arrived at the building 5 minutes late, but nobody really seemed to care. I entered the office and settled at my cubicle. I took off my coat and hung it on my chair. I took out my laptop and continued typing the piece I was typing last night. My deadline is on Wednesday and if I want to become editor-in-chief, I've got to make a good impression on the boss. See, our current editor-in-chief, Lance Howard, is retiring very soon, and we're all aiming for his spot. It's a bit selfish, I know. But during these hard times, it's every man for himself.

I'm currently working on a story about overworked construction workers downtown. It isn't the best story in the world, but it's relevant. And it was the only one I could find at such short notice. And they were the only ones who didn't yell at me to leave them alone and get a life.

I was working in peace when one of my colleagues came up to me. I tried to look as busy and professional as I could.

"Hey, Kurt. Are you coming to my daughter's birthday party this Wednesday?" Marlon Peterson asked as he sipped his coffee. As much as I wanted to have some kind of getaway from work, I can't. I have to work hard to become editor-in-chief and that can't happen if I'm just attending little girls' birthday parties.

I didn't take my eyes off of the laptop and didn't stop typing as I replied to Marlon. "Oh, geez. Sorry, Marlon. I can't. My deadline's on Wednesday and I've got to make this story look and sound good until then." I said, hoping that he wouldn't try to convince me to go any further.

"No, but it'll only be really quick. You can just stop by for a while and eat some cake while the kids play."

"Marlon—"

"Cindy will be so happy to see you!"

"I said I—"

"There's going to be a clown. It's gonna be really fun!"

_Yeah, well I hate clowns_.

"Why me? Why can't…" I looked around, looking for another guy for Marlon to bug. "Why can't you take Andy over there?"

Marlon looked at Andy who was chatting up with Derek by their cubicles. "Andy's wife's due date is on Wednesday. She's gonna have to be rushed to the hospital and he has to be there, just in case of emergencies."

I scoffed. "Well, I have a due date on Wednesday, too. I'm really sorry, Marlon. But I can't go. Tell Cindy I'm sorry." I said, half-heartedly. I really didn't have time for any of this. Marlon raised his hands up a little in surrender. "Okay."

I went back to work, ignoring the world around me.

It wasn't until my stomach started grumbling that I realized it was lunch time.

I told myself I'm going to type one more sentence before I go out and meet up with Finn and his darling fiancée for lunch. And so I did.

But just when I was about to finish up, Lance came into the floor to check up on things and it gave me the opportunity to show him my work. Maybe it would impress him enough.

"Lance! I'm working on this article, and I was wondering if you could tell me what you think about it… you know, just some overview from the boss."

Said the ever-so ass-kisser Gary.

Lance turned to look at Gary, waiting for him to show him his work. Gary approached him and showed him a hard copy of his article.

_He even had it printed_.

I smirked, watching Lance read over the article. wondering what kind of lame story Gary came up with now. I can't wait to show Lance _my_ work. He's gonna be so impressed. He'll love it so much, he'll give me the position for—

"It's good. I love it."

_Wait, what?_

"But I think you should change the title."

Gary nodded his head rather enthusiastically and looked like it was about to snap off his neck. Which I hoped. "Like, to what?"

Lance gave Gary his paper back and thought for a very brief moment. "I don't know… something creative. Your title is too dull. Make it noticeable."

"But it's already noticeable."

Lance read the title once more. "_'Overworked Construction Workers Seek Higher Wage'_. That's not creative, Gary."

_Wait, WHAT?_

I was practically hyperventilating in my seat. Gary. Has. The same. Story. As. Me.

My deadline is on _Wednesday_.

After Lance walked out of the area, I closed my laptop and rested my head on it. "My life sucks." I murmured under my breath.

I felt like melting away into the Pacific Ocean, never to be found again.

There goes my spot at the editor-in-chief office.

I stood up and grabbed my coat lazily, putting it on. I grabbed my wallet and umbrella, headed down to the lobby, then outside. I opened my umbrella and began walking to the restaurant Finn and future Mrs. Hummel chose. And by 'future Mrs. Hummel', I meant for Finn. Not me. Just FYI.

When I entered the restaurant and saw them sitting at a table, I knew I was late.

And I was screwed.

I approached the two and started apologizing to the both of them (more to Finn, really. He's like the Hulk when he gets mad). Quinn just laughed and told me to sit down. I sat next to her, and not to Finn. God knows what some sort of damage he could do to my brain when he hits me with a chair.

"Relax, dude. We just got here, too." Finn said, looking at the menu. I breathed a sigh of relief and rested my head on the table like the pathetic loser I am.

"You okay, man?"

"No." I groaned and sat back up. "I have no story. Which means I won't be promoted to editor-in-chief. Which means… my life is over."

"I thought you _had_ a story." Quinn said, looking at me. Oh, yeah. Quinn knows about my life. Hooray.

"I did. Until I found out that somebody else had the same story as me. And this 'someone' just happens to be the biggest ass-kisser in the world. Or at least, in the office." I replied, rolling my eyes at my hatred for Gary.

"Then just write another story, no big deal." Finn said and called a waiter to take our orders. I looked at him like he was insane. "It's not that easy to get a good story, Finn. My deadline is on _Wednesday_. That's two days from now. What do you expect me to do?" I said and returned to leaning my head on the table, groaning like I had stubbed my toe. I heard the waiter arrive with their usual 'hello, may I take your order' tone.

"Umm… is he okay?" the waiter said, and even though I wasn't looking, I knew he was referring to me. I lifted my head and looked at him.

"I'm gonna lose my job!" I yelled.

So, guess who ate his pasta with waiter spit on it?

* * *

><p>I got home at about 6:15 and felt like crashing down on the couch as I eat ice cream while Rachel watches <em>America's Next Top Model. <em>I might be gay, but I'm not really into that stuff.

I opened the door to our apartment and was surprised to find 5 other girls in the living room, eating ice cream and watching ANTM. I stood by the door for a moment, looking at all of them, before taking off my coat and hanging it on the coat rack. I sighed and headed straight to the kitchen and placed my bag on the table. Rachel was there, and she gave me a quick peck on the lips. We're like Will & Grace. "Hey, sweetie. How was your day?" she said and brought a bowl of popcorn to the living room.

"Awful!" I said, opening the fridge and opening a bottle of beer. I took a sip and rested my head on the fridge. "You know that story I've been writing for days?" I asked, my voice a bit muffled against the fridge.

"You mean the one with the overworked construction workers you've been working on for days?"

"Yeah. Gary Ass-Kisser had the same story. Oh, and guess what? He showed it to _Lance_ and he actually _liked_ it." I said and joined the girls in the living room. I sat on the vacant couch out of the two couches that we had. Most of the girls were sitting on the sofa. I was so tired, I didn't even bother introducing myself.

Rachel cleared her throat. "Oh, um… girls, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is Amanda, Wynona, Hannah, Chelsea, and Sam. They work with me in WSS." She said and I gave the girls a weak smile and a quick wave. I really wasn't in the mood to meet new people today.

"So, is this your boyfriend, Rachel?" Wynona looked at me with a smile that definitely wasn't geared towards friendly. _Oh, God. I can't have another one of Rachel's friends hitting on me._

Rachel laughed softly before looking at me, as if she was expecting me to back her up with an answer. "Uh… no. Not exactly. He's…"

"Not on your team." I continued, a smile forming upon my lips. Not to flatter myself or anything, but she looked pretty disappointed. I didn't have to tell them that we used to sleep together.

Rachel stood up from the sofa and grabbed a DVD from the table. The credits for the show they were watching were on (and so was that _annoying_ theme song). She popped open the DVD case and carefully took out the disc. She opened up the DVD played and placed the disc in. She settled back to her spot on the sofa and focused on the screen.

"What are you watching?" I asked, glancing at my watch. It was still 7:00 and I was already so, _so_ tired.

"We're gonna watch _Confessions of a Shopaholic_."

I stood up immediately. "I'm out." I said, bringing my beer with me. I began walking towards the balcony.

"Whatever you say, Kurt." Rachel said and I closed the sliding glass door behind me, sitting on a chair in the balcony, admiring the good New York view while wondering how many more months I'm going to last in this place if I don't have a job.


	2. All in a Day's Work

Wednesday. AKA Due Date day.

AKA the day I get fired.

I'm screwed. Lance is going to kill me. I don't have a story. Therefore, I will lose my job. Then I'll have to move back to Ohio and rot in a small apartment somewhere in Lima, the same stinkin' pathetic town I grew up in.

Which would be appropriate given that I'm pathetic as well.

I actually spent my entire Tuesday in my cubicle packing up so that I wouldn't go through the hassle of going back and forth my apartment and the office, putting my stuff in a box to return home.

"Kurt, Lance wants to see you." Marlo said and I sighed. This is it. _This is it_.

I walked to Lance's office, head bowed down in shame. Almost everyone from the Opinion Pages knows that I haven't submitted a story when I was supposed to. Some rumors even spread that I _stole_ Gary's story. That's crap, I didn't even know he was working on the same story as me!

Lance's office was huge. He had glass doors _and_ windows. Of course, when you're the editor-in-chief, you get these things.

"Lance?" I asked, opening the door to let myself in. The old man nodded towards me and gestured towards the chair in front of his table. "Ah. Kurt. Please, sit."

I did as I was told, unable to hide my nervous expression.

"You—"

I couldn't hold it in anymore. "I know, I know. I didn't submit a story. I'm fired. I get it. I'm so sorry, sir. But in my defense, I didn't know Gary and I had the same—"

"Kurt," Lance firmly said. I stopped babbling and looked at him quizzically. "You're not fired."

Old man say what?

"I'm not?"

"No." he stood up and walked towards a tray on a small cart, pouring himself some coffee. "Would you like some?"

I turned my head his direction, shocked from what he just told me. "N-no… no, thank you, sir."

He returned to his desk and sat down.

"You're a good journalist, Kurt."

Okay, _what_ is going on here?  
>"As you know, I'm retiring in 5 months. When I do, the spot for editor-in-chief will be opened." He paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "And I want you to have the job."<p>

Jaw, meet floor. Floor, meet jaw.

"I-I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. I want_ you_ to be my successor."

Oh, so I'm not going deaf and delirious. Good.

"I've seen what you can do, Kurt. You have great potential. Don't let one unsubmitted story keep you from telling another."

I can't believe it. He wants me to become his _successor_!

"But first, I need you to do one thing."

Of course. A catch.

"I want you to prove to me that I have made the right choice. Within the next 5 months, I want you to give me a story that's out of the ordinary… something that will catch everyone's eye. A story that has never been told before. Can you do it?"

It's pretty risky. But what choice do I have? This is a treasure trail. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. As Michael Jackson would say, _this is it_.

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He said and took another sip from his coffee. "I want you to take the rest of the day. I'm giving you a head start on that story."

I immediately stood up, almost tripping on my feet. "Don't disappointment me." He added and I headed towards the door.

"You won't be disappointed, sir."

* * *

><p>This is going to be epic. This is going to be the best story every submitted in the New York Times in the history of the New York Times. It's going to blow Lance's mind that he's gonna need a brain transplant afterwards and then his new brain is gonna be blown again. It's gonna shake New York City to the core.<p>

And it doesn't even exist.

Yet.

See, there are two types of people in the world. The first one, are the ones who have plans for everything. They're the ones who practically have the world on their fingertips, and they're just playing the notes whenever they want like a fucking piano. When they say they'll do something, they do it. And they don't just do it. They _nail_ it. They have _everything_ planned out and they don't even break a sweat.

And then there are people like me, who just go along with whatever, stepping into the warzone empty-handed and with no plans of action, whatsoever. People like me, who say they'll do something and end up screwing things up. We are the ones to blame for the rate of unemployment.

I enter Starbucks, hoping that one of the greatest untold stories ever is something that has to do with coffee. Or Starbucks.

I head on over to the counter, looking around as I fall in line. Nope, nothing interesting to see here. At least, as far as my untrained eye can see.

I might have been caught up with observing the scene because the next thing I knew, the girl at the counter had been calling my attention for the past minute or so. I apologize and order my usual coffee, a grande latté with extra cream. I give her my name and wait as I continue looking creepy by the corner, observing everyone.

Again, I might have overdone it because I can hear my name being called again and again over the microphone and I head on over to the counter once more, absentmindedly grabbing the first grande cup I see and a tissue. I was about to walk out of the store when I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turn around and I see a dark-haired man holding a grande cup with my name on it.

"Excuse me, we, um… we switched orders." The man said. I stared at him for a while, still not catching up with what was happening. I tilted my head to the side a little. "Hm?"

"Um… that's my coffee."

Then it clicked. I looked at the coffee I was holding and turned the coffee collar to my direction. 'Blaine'.

"Oh, my bad. Sorry. Blaine." I said and we exchanged coffees.

"It's okay. It happens. Kurt." He said and shrugged. I smiled at him. It's not everyday strangers are nice to you. And that's coming from a guy who constantly gets snapped at by people he wants to interview for a story on the paper.

"I'm just a little out of it." I said. "Work and all that hogwash."

"Hogwash? That's an uncommon word."

"I'm a journalist. Words are kinda my thing."

"Cool."

"It's what I do." I said and chuckled. Before I realized it, I was actually enjoying this conversation. I had actually forgotten all about my life mission to find a story and submit it to Lance. "Well, um… I guess I better get going." I nodded my head and stepped back to the door. As I turned around, I bumped my head on the door. I immediately turned around and played it cool. "The, um… the earth moved." He chuckled and I can feel a blush creep on my cheeks in embarrassment. _Smooth move, Hummel_. _You fucking idiot_.

I opened the door and he followed after me. Turns out, we were headed towards the same direction.

"Oh. Hello." I said awkwardly. I have that tendency to make things really awkward when they're not necessarily supposed to be.

"Hi." He said.

"Where are you headed to?"

"Work." He sipped his coffee and we both crossed the street at the same time, looking both ways even though it was a one-way street. "I'm a music professor."

Well, this is interesting. Not really. Music professor? How much does this man earn anyway? I'm surprised he even has the money to buy something from Starbucks. Musicians don't really earn much, according to my high school teachers. It's a good thing I followed the path to journalism. Look at me, I'm earning a good amount of money (well, good enough to pay for my rent, food, clothes, and other basic human needs. And the occasional leisurely spending). And what would've happened to me if I chose to become a musician? I'll become a hobo in the streets with an unshaved goatee and greasy hair.

I bet this guy isn't even a music _professor_. I have my bet on music _teacher_ for a 5th grade class.

"Really? Where?" I asked politely. I wasn't about to make him think that I'm some kind of douche bag from the NY Times. That'll be one less reader we'll have.

"Julliard."

Fuck, I was not expecting that.

Holy _fuck_, I was _not_ expecting that.

Really, to be honest, he looks more like a bartender than a music professor.

"Oh, really? That's awesome. What instrument?" I asked.

"The piano. It's… nothing, really."  
>What he calls 'nothing' is actually 'something'. The piano is an instrument from heaven sent to us by a higher power to nourish and use well. That is, of course, until that higher power crushes your dreams and left to wilt by a window in Ohio like a rose on a hot summer's day.<p>

Of course, it's always for your good. Right? _Right?_

"Well, I think that's great." I said and took a sip from my coffee.

"What about you? You said you were a journalist, so…" he said, looking at me expectantly, as if he was expecting me to finish his sentence.

"Sorry, I'm not really following you here."

"Do you work in a newspaper, a magazine, or something?"

"Oh, yeah. I, uh… I actually… I'm a journalist for the New York Times."

Blaine (if that's even his real name) looked at me like an excited puppy, surprised colored his face. His triangular eyebrows were raised and his hazel eyes staring at me like I was some kind of fresh steak.

"You're kidding." He said, grinning widely.

"I do not kid about work."

"No way!" he exclaimed and I smiled. "Which section do you work in?"

Oh my god. What if he knows me?

"The Opinion Pages." I answered bluntly and we turned a corner. To be honest, I'm just following him around. I forgot where I was going anyway. Oh, wait. I don't have anywhere to go to because I should be looking for a story right now.

"Wait, so _you're_ Kurt Hummel?"

I smiled weakly and nodded my head. _Well, this is awkward._

"That's really awesome. I mean, I haven't really been reading the newspaper much lately, but I think I've read some of your articles." He said and sipped his coffee. I sipped my coffee, too, trying to look casual and cool. "Not as awesome as you think. You've got deadlines to catch, stories to get, stories to get that other people haven't already gotten…" I said and he chuckled.

"Yikes. Sounds like a lot of trouble to go through to fish for a story."

I figured that I might as well go home. I don't really have due dates to catch, so I think I'm just gonna catch some sleep. I gradually stopped walking and found myself on the street towards the train station.

"So, um… it was really nice meeting you." I said, holding out my hand for him to shake. He looked at me for a moment as if he was going to say something (and I was hoping that he was), but he just smiled at me and shook my head firmly. "Nice meeting you, too." He said and let go.

Okay, I have no idea if he plays on my team, but there is no way in hell I'm gonna ask him that. I'm not predatory and I have no time for dating and all that crap, but wouldn't it be nice to have a friend who's like you? You know what I mean.

And I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's actually pretty sad that it has to end this way.

"I'll see you when I see you?" I said and he nodded his head.

"Definitely."

And with that, we parted ways. I'm not trying to make it sound dramatic or anything because it really isn't dramatic. At all. It was just odd. A random stranger had a random chat with me over coffee. It's like real life Omegle.

As I sit in the subway, I kept thinking about what he said about being a professor in Julliard. I've always wanted to go to Julliard, but then I realized that I'd only go to Julliard if I wanted to be a musician, and again… it wasn't an option for me to take.

Now, I can't stop thinking about that damn Philharmonic Orchestra.

* * *

><p>I get home to 3 voice mails. 2 from Rachel (reminding me to heat the pasta in the fridge and telling me she'll get home late tonight) and one surprising call from Finn who said that he and Quinn will come visit tonight.<p>

What the actual fuck?

But Finn doesn't visit me! He calls me, yes, but he doesn't visit me! He doesn't even know where I live! And what on earth is he visiting me for? And why is he brining his _fiancée _over? Is he high?

I look at the time and it was already 7:15. The future husband and wife could be here any minute.

Literally, _any fucking minute_.

I scrambled around the apartment, picking up the clutter that was lying around that Rachel either forgot to clean or intended to leave. I didn't want my brother and his fiancée see what a failure I am in life _and_ in housekeeping. Okay, I know a thing or two about housekeeping. But since Rachel and I have been busy lately, we haven't found the time to clean up the place.

After spending about 20 minutes cleaning up, I heard the doorbell ring and immediately hurried to the door. My hair was out of order, my necktie was loosened around my neck and the first two buttons on my shirt were undone. I immediately brush back my hair with my fingers and tried to compose myself for a moment before opening the door and greeting the couple with a welcoming smile.

Only, it wasn't them. It was Rachel.

"What the hell, Rach?" I said, stepping aside and watching her settle down on the couch. "Why did you ring the doorbell? This is _our_ apartment, you know."

"I left my keys." She took off her shoes and dropped them on the ground as she relaxed.

"You left your— Jesus, Rachel. What if I wasn't home? How the hell are you going to get in?"

"Why wouldn't you be home?"

"I don't know, I was setting an example. Christ."

I saw her studying me. I realized that my hair had been sticking up in all directions since I tried to 'fix' it with my hand earlier. "What happened to you?" she asked, more in surprise that anything.

"I cleaned up the apartment. Because you didn't."

"That's because I was in a hurry and I was late."

"Well—"

The doorbell rang again. This time, I'm _sure_ it's them. I open the door and surprise, surprise. It's Finnegan and his lovely bride-to-be.

And I'm not being sarcastic. Really, Quinn's gorgeous. She's like the ghost of Grace Kelly.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" Finn asked, chuckling as he messed up my hair. I stepped aside to let them in and led them to the living room where Rachel sat in confusion as he looked at Finn and Quinn.

Or as I decided to call them in that moment, Fuinn.

"Rachel, this is my brother, Finn. And his fiancée, Quinn." I said and the couple greeted her. Of course, with her charisma and appealing looks, she charmed the two in no time. They've talked and talked for minutes while I washed the dishes, cursing Rachel for the fact that she left this morning's dishes in the sink for the whole day.

I can't believe Rachel and my brother get along. It's like two egotistic twins meeting each other for the first time. The worst part is, they seemed to have forgotten I exist.

Well, I proved myself wrong when I walked back to the living room and heard Finn talking about the incident when we were little when I rode a bike for the first time and fell down, scraping my knee and the side of my forehead deeply.

"… and he kept crying for hours!"

Laughter burst inside the room and I stood there behind Finn, blushing like an apple. And was slightly pissed off.

"You people are cruel, you know that? It was painful." I said grimly. Rachel was still giggling, and I reminded myself to get her back for this and for not cleaning up the apartment like we _agreed_ upon.

"Oh, come on! Are you gonna cry again, crybaby?" she teased. If that nickname sticks, I'm gonna slap her in the face. I don't care if we slept together or went out a couple of times. I am going to massacre her.

"Oh my god, Rachel. Shut up."

Finn pulled my arm and placed a hand on the side of my head, turning it a little to Rachel's direction. "Look, he still has the scar." He said, pointing at the side of my forehead, and I immediately move away, glaring at him as I sit next to Rachel.

"So, _you're_ the Rachel my brother dated?" Finn asked, an arm around his blonde future wife. Rachel glanced at me and grinned.

"Depends. Which brother are you talking about?" she said and Finn chuckled.

"I only have one brother and last time I checked, Kurt _wasn't_ adopted so… I'm talking about Kurt."

Not funny. Not funny at all.

See, when we were kids, Finn used to tell me that a nun left me in a basket on a stormy night and that my real mother abandoned me. Of course, I cried. Try being 4 years old with your big brother telling you you're not a real part of the family you've grown to know as your own.

Apparently, my continuous crying got my parents' attention and they asked me what was wrong. I told them that I know I was adopted and they didn't have to lie anymore and I'll pack my bags as soon as possible, determined to find my real mother. When they asked me where I heard that from, I pointed to Finn, who was pretending to be so fucking innocent, sitting on the couch, watching TV.

He was grounded for three days.

And for the record, no, I am not adopted. My parents had to show me my birth certificate to get me to stop crying.

"Ah, yes. Kurt. We…" she trailed off and looked at me. I just rolled my eyes at her. "…went out a couple of times. It was nothing serious, though. Just some dinner out, movies, hook-ups…"

"Rachel!" I cleared my throat and she laughed. Nothing is funny about being gay and having your best friend tell your brother and his fiancée that you used to date. And do things more than just _dating_.

"Alright, alright. I'll leave you three alone." She said and stood up, grabbing her bag and taking it to her room. I sighed in relief. Now, onto business.

"Okay, now what do you want?" I said, turning to Finn. He and Quinn exchanged looks before smiling and looking at me. I raised an eyebrow at them. "You guys are really weird." I said and stood up, walking to the kitchen to get a bottle of water. Finn followed after me, a dopey grin on his face.

"And you would have a really really weird wedding and make weird beautiful babies and live in a weird house down in Greenwich Village with weird paintings on your walls." I continued.

"Would our best man be weirded out by the fact that he's going to our weird wedding?"

"I don't know, ask him –"

Then it hit me.

"Wait. You're… you're saying…?"

Finn nodded his head and Quinn walked up to him. She smiled at me, and so did Finn.

"Yup." Finn nodded. I just stood there, shocked. That's the second shocking news that has been delivered to me today.

"No!" I said, not because I didn't want to be, but because I couldn't believe it. Why was _I_ the best man? Why me?

"Yes, you are. I couldn't think of a better best man than you. Of course, I asked Puck, but he had plans." Finn added. Okay, I wasn't his first choice, but still. This is _huge_ news.

"Oh my god! Oh my _god_! This is incredible!" I said and placed a hand on Finn's shoulder and another on the side of Quinn's arm. "I— I'll be the _best_ best man a wedding could ever have! You won't be disappointed!"

That's also the second time I've said that today.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I really want to hear your input on this chapter, guys. What do you think of Blaine's entrance in this story? Good? Bad? Mediocre? **


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